


To Walk a Shared Path

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Roleswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: In which Galahad was raised in the woods while Percival was sent to a monastery instead.Both young men now at Camelot and facing what it means to have a shared Destiny, what makes a family, and, perhaps most importantly, what it means to be human.
Kudos: 13





	1. Blood of our Father

Lancelot had been loathe to follow Bors down to the tavern outside of town, and perhaps even angry with himself for being talking into this in the first place.

Still, not having anything else he needed to do and having a great number of things he would like even less to be doing, he followed.

Bors looked at ease as they entered the tavern, navigating the crowds as if they were not there in the first place. He managed to use the space Bors' movements left behind him and was marginally successful.

They found a disused corner, far darker than Lancelot would have gone into alone, but he ultimately trusted Bors almost as much as he trusted Arthur himself – not that he would say so much aloud.

They were, on the surface, watching people who were truly at home in the small tavern gamble away far more of their day's wages than was probably wise.

But they were not here to judge.

“So your bastard's come home to roost,” Bors' voice was so deep despite its low volume that Lancelot swore the other man had to be speaking from somewhere in his chest rather than the back of his throat as one did for sacred oath, “Why's that got you so wound up you can't focus anymore?”

Lancelot had expected this conversation to go a number of ways, had spent all day rehearsing every way every interaction he could think of might go. And here, less than a quarter of an hour into the evening, he already had to throw out the playbook.

“How am I supposed to react?” Lancelot's voice was louder than he'd given it permission to be, “He's. He's supposed to be the Holy Child Redux, from my understanding, which I can assure you he got from neither me or his mother.”

“Yes, yes,” Bors was unphased, “I am overly familiar with the violence and evils of someone who wants what they want and will not take no as an answer. But that's **not** a fault yours or the kid's.”

Lancelot froze, his previous having had to thrown out his playbook coming into focus as a premature decision – surely there had to be _something_ in there he could use to keep from staring at Bors as if he was speaking a language he had no hope of recognizing for the foreseeable future.

“Have you spoken with him yet?” Bors saved Lancelot from a future filled with only awkward silence.

Lancelot, not helping his own suddenly imperative quest to avoid as much silence as possible, only shook his head.

“Guess it did get rather chaotic,” Bors looked down at his ale and frowned. Lancelot assumed the mug was nearly empty already.

“He's the one who's supposed to go for the grail,” Lancelot said as he exhaled, as if the words were leaving him rather than being generated by conscious thought, “First the kid from the convent whose father died in one of Arthur's wars while I was still, well, still a bit waterlogged and now – now my own son,” Lancelot did not feel his grip on his own mug slip, but he absolutely did notice Bors handing it back to him, almost entirely unspilled, “and now you're just using magic tricks in public.”

Bors chuckled, but it was not a cruel or mocking sound.

“Ah, right, yeah, the kid who showed up near a year back with his sister in tow,” Bors was familiar with the lad, “Percival, I think. Quiet but observant, and a quick study with every weapon he's been able to get his hands on.”

“They're both too young for any of this destiny bullshit,” Lancelot had never sworn in front of another Knight like this, but Bors had no external reaction, so he kept going, “My own feelings about finding out I have a son in this fashion, they're – what – maybe fifteen or sixteen summers old? Arthur barely allows anyone so young to be Knighted anymore, and here these two barely-not-children are set to become more than human in their pursuit of the Holy before they've even learned what it is to be human to begin with,” Lancelot ran his free hand through his hair and let out an unhappy noise, “If the Christian God is real, I'm punching Him in the face.”

“Aren't you Christian?” Bors interrupted.

“Only for Court purposes,” Lancelot admitted.

“Eh,” Bors shrugged, “Sorry, please continue.”

Lancelot paused, searching for his previous line of thought, only to realize it was nowhere to be found, every last possible scrap of it disappeared from his mind as if had never been there in the first place.

“I've...” Lancelot had no idea how he was going to explain that his entire mind was blank to Bors without making himself feel even more daft than he did already.

“I interrupted,” Bors said effortlessly, “So these two lost children of Camelot have destinies punching a may-or-may-not exist deity in the face over.”

“Yes,” Lancelot finally took a drink of his ale, “And I, apparently, have a son.”

Bors nodded and Lancelot took it as a sign to keep talking and see what happened.

“Nobody tells you when you first see your child there is something that pulls at your very soul, rips out something of yourself you clearly did not need or at the very least were not using and replaces it with this _sense of knowing_ that this child is yours, your legacy, your responsibility no matter how old the child is,” Lancelot felt the weight of knowing grow heavier as he spoke, not lighter as he had hoped.

Bors, despite every impulse to the contrary, did not suggest that may be divine intervention and not parental instinct. 

“And this child of mine, this Galahad,” Lancelot continued, “while he is as well-spoken as having been born to a woman of a high court, their time in the woods has left him a little...wild.”

“Cain and Able were raised by wolves and yet still managed to found Rome,” Bors argued.

“I am fairly sure that was Romulus and Remus,” Lancelot covered his face with his hand, “and regardless, that comparison insinuates he had a twin and already killed the twin.”

“Well at least then it's already over with,” Bors said but quickly added, “I'm not helping one bit, am I?”

“I am not sure I am still able to be helped anyways,” Lancelot wasn't helping himself, either, but unlike Bors he was not trying at this point.

The two of them lapsed into a silence that was far less awkward than Lancelot had feared, genuinely watching the games of gambling and varying levels of cheating going on throughout the tavern.

“What can I do?” Lancelot asked, “Even if he does know I am his father, I have not tried to talk to him, and if he does not know perhaps it would be a mercy if he did not know such that he may be spared knowing what his mother did lest he ask too-pointed questions.”

“Well,” Bors said, pensive in the way too-heavy ale makes all men regardless of their station outside the tavern door, “you could watch him, watch them both, do your best to understand who they are as people and guide them towards humanity rather than blind destiny.”

And well, it wasn't the worst idea Lancelot had ever heard.

–

Percival found the newcomer in the smaller dining hall – the one not used for feast days – devouring what he assumed to be a late dinner. Sir Kay, the castle's keeper and foster-brother to the King, was seated a few seats away and mostly asleep on the table.

Percival decided not to derail his mission by asking what happened to the sensechal, and instead sat next to the young man who was said to share his destiny.

“Hello,” Percival said carefully as he sat next to Galahad. He was mindful of himself, kept every part of him in the way the nuns had taught him – back straight, shoulders back, head held high, hands folded together and on his lap when not in use.

“Hi,” Galahad said around a mouthful of some type of small bird, an end of the leg in each hand, “What's up?”

“I heard you are destined to seek the Holy Grail,” Percival hoped the direct line of conversation was not too off-putting for the other man.

“And my mam was destined for a lot she never got to do because she took the will of God into her own hands,” Galahad said, bites of meat punctuating his statement, “I'm rather hoping to let fate take its course and be in the right place at the right time.”

Taken aback by Galahad's sure-footed statements despite how they felt like blasphemy in ways he did not yet have words for, Percival's jaw fell slack in a sort-of shock.

Oh, how the nuns would have yelled at him for such a failure to control himself. Galahad, in sharp contrast, said nothing if he noticed at all.

Galahad kept working at his meal as if he was starving, and Percival realized for the first time that he might be. At the very least, he had come to court dressed in little more than rags and a proud expression that screamed of his noble lineage and divine purpose and had not been away from the elder Knights and their constant barrage of questioning, nonetheless had time to eat.

Which, at the very least, explained why Galahad was having supper despite the late hour but still did nothing to explain why Sir Kay appeared to be sleeping at the table.

“I have not known God's plans to be swayed by man's interference,” Percival felt compelled to say.

“Not convinced my mam was a man,” Galahad countered.

“It means,” Percival allowed himself a quiet, frustrated noise before he tried again, “It's a general term.”

“Oh I know,” the corners of Galahad's mouth twitched into a grin.

“Besides,” Percival tried to rescue the conversation, “your mother may yet be able to fulfill whatever it is God has in store for her.”

“Little hard to do anything when you're dead,” Galahad replied without hesitation.

Percival's proper posture was lost entirely in an instant. He reached one hand to Galahad's forearm, a gesture meant to offer comfort.

Galahad put the remnants of the bird down on his plate, wiped one hand on his newly furnished pants, and put the cleaner hand over Percival's.

“It's better this way,” Galahad told him, “but thanks.”

Percival's heart hurt for this stranger whose path seemed to have no choice but to merge with his own.

Percival gave Galahad's arm a tentative squeeze, a gesture he had seen other Knights offer their compatriots in moments of personal vulnerability. It seemed to have the desired effect because Galahad returned the squeeze and did not let go.

“Really,” Galahad's voice held none of its previous bravado, “thanks.”

“You're welcome,” felt like the correct response, and so Percival said it.

“Whatever seeking the Grail may require,” Galahad remembered why they were having this conversation in the first place, “I will do it. I trust God to put me where I need to be, for He is in all things, all places, every moment, every breath we take. It is up to us to not let delusions interfere with what which He requires of us such that we may remain worthy.”

The eloquence surprised Percival, everything he had heard from Galahad until this point a degree of flippant that could not be mistaken for anything else.

“But don't get me wrong,” the flippancy was back as if it was never gone in the first place, “if I do achieve the Grail my first order of business is going to be punching God in the face.”

Despite himself, despite the blasphemy, Percival laughed for the first time since he could remember.


	2. Greatest of Expectations

_Percival was on the ground again._

_This was nothing new – he was never steady enough, never quite good enough according to the nuns and overseers alike, but this time was different._

_“I'm sorry,” a choked sob escaped with the words._

_“I do not believe you know what sorrow is,” someone said – everything was too far away, too unfamiliar through the blinding pain._

_“You're hurting him!” A voice – a voice he knew, his sister – cried._

_“We are teaching him a lesson,” the unfamiliar voice said, “and unless you wish to learn it too, you will leave.”_

_A frustrated, strangled cry from his sister pulled him out of the trance he had finally found that allowed him to escape the worst of it._

_“We're both leaving,” she declared._

_“Sigune,” Percival said weakly, “you don't have to do this.”_

_“But I do,” she was always so headstrong, so sure._

_Despite how deeply ingrained his obedience to the nuns, the overseer, the elders of the monastery, he would always trust his sister first and foremost._

_“Come on,” she grabbed him by his wrist, “run.”_

–

Percival sat at the Round Table and tried to hold himself as if he felt himself equal to those around him. After all, that was the purpose of the table's shape, was it not?

Still, this newcomer, this Galahad sat on the seat of death, untouched by whatever magic had bound itself to the seat leaving only the most Godly untouched.

Percival had not seen this magic in action, for by the time he came to court the entire Table had developed a fear of the chair so great he'd seen elder Knights rip younger ones from their path with a ferocity only rivaled by battle lust.

Galahad managed the day before to climb atop the chair's high backing while trying to escape a barrage of questions from Knights who were not in Arthur's innermost circle of trust and because the young boy had been so mobbed by the Knights Percival had never seen before and likely would never see again that none of the elders could get there fast enough.

The chaos that erupted as the newcomer – as Galahad – balanced precariously atop the chair but did not die – did not even fall, well, it was no wonder the poor fellow had not had a chance to eat until so late in the night that even Sir Kay was exhausted.

This morning, however, King Arthur had a much tighter hold on the chaos, every Knight around him sitting properly but uneasy, subtle shifts in their shoulders betraying their surface calm. Still, seated this time in the seat of death and prophecy rather than standing on it's highest point, was Galahad. He was either oblivious to the impossible thing he had done or, much like Percival himself, unimpressed with how everyone had reacted, seeing through their surface-only courtly mannerisms and recognizing everyone's desire to betray their King's control over his own Court and barrage Galahad with questions of their own.

His King cleared his throat and the collective anxious energy shifted from Galahad to their sovereign. 

“Galahad,” King Arthur began, “joins us as someone who, like many here, has a Fate resting on his shoulders far larger than any physical burden he could even imagine. As he sits on the Siege Perilous, he brings proof that he is, indeed, to achieve,” he seemed to falter in his words for a moment so brief it could have been anything else, “great things. But still, he is with us, and will be treated as you would all treat those you seat next to, as if he is **welcome here**.”

There was a sharp warning there and Percival noticed he was not the only one who flinched.

–

_Percival ran, Sigune dragging him along behind her. They had left what little they had behind and it felt as though Sigune had not slowed all afternoon safe to let them both drink from the streams they came across._

_Where she had developed such endurance and strength was beyond him._

_“Sigune,” he finally pleaded despite how poorly his pleas had been met by those who told the both of them, children still, that they alone could show them God's love, “I need a rest.”_

_“Not much further,” she promised him, “Can you do just a little longer?”_

_And, not wanted to disappoint her, he decided the only answer was yes._

–

They were training again.

It seemed to eat Percival's days, the training he underwent alongside those who had been Knighted.

Despite being at Camelot over a year and having had a seat at King Arthur's Round Table for more than a season, he had not been Knighted. But, then again, nor had he asked.

Asking things, especially of others, paralyzed him with fear. Despite what not asking questions had once cost him, he found that fear seizing him once again.

He parried a blow from the one he recognized as Sir Agrivain, a Knight who, despite his age and skill, seemed unliked by the majority of the others. 

Sir Agrivane tried again from a lower angle, but Percival was able to sweep the Knight's sword to the side and ram him with his shield in one movement.

Sir Agrivain staggered and fell. He threw his helmet off, face contorted with fury.

Percival forced himself to stand fast, to not run away in fear of what anger would drive the other to do.

“Where did you learn that?” A sense of awe was there, softening the anger.

–

_They were in a cave, one whose opening was barely noticeable in the rocky hillside._

_“Sometimes the nuns would not even notice I'd be gone all day while they were teaching you,” she explained as he laid face-down on the cool stones, his energy gone and legs furious with him, “and I'd do my best to see how far away I could get, and how fast I could do it. That's how I found this cave.”_

_“Huh,” Percival managed, “You've been planning this?”_

_“Yes and no,” she frowned, “I always feared they'd turn on one of us, treat us like an example for everyone else for something that wasn't our fault and I didn't want them to...to hurt either of us.”_

_They'd both seen lashings, knew how deep the injuries split skin and muscle._

_Percival knew that his price for failing the Fisher King, for not recognizing the Grail and other assorted holy objects, would be lashings if he was lucky, for despite his destiny, he had failed._

_“Where will we go?” he asked._

_There was no going back, that much he knew._

–

“As a boy,” Percival answered mostly truthfully.

While, yes, he had not learned how to fight from the nuns, he would often imagine himself in the roles of the Heroes of the Old Testament, brave in the face of the Devil himself, a stick his sword and his sister his opponent. They would play these fantastical stories out in the dead of night, whispering so they did not wake anyone else.

With her, he had learned to dodge unseen blows, to sense where a weapon would be next, and as they got older the hits landed harder, sometimes splitting skin.

When he felt a practice sword for the first time, on his second day in Camelot, it felt so like the branches he had used his entire life that it nearly felt like coming home.

–

_”We could go to Camelot,” she suggested, “Our da was a Knight there.”_

_“Our da died in a war,” Percival reminded her, “and ma went mad with grief so the nuns took us in to keep us safe.”_

_“Both could be true,” she sounded unworried, “Still, you're his only son. They'll welcome you.”_

_“What about you?” Percival scrambled to sit up so he could see her face, measure how she felt beyond her words._

_“I'd come too,” she gave him a playful shove, “I'd not leave you behind, not for even the King himself.”_

_“Be careful!” Percival snapped despite how deeply touched he was, “You can't say those things, especially if we **do** go to Camelot!”_

_“Only to you and only in a cave so far from a village that if anyone else hears they've committed worse crimes,” she rolled her eyes, “We'll have to get going early if we're going to make it tomorrow, but I just know we can make it.”_

_And, with no better ideas of his own, Percival agreed._

–

Sir Agrivain rose to his feet again, helmet off, and squared up to face Percival again.

Percival lowered his shield, a clear feint designed to have an opponent ask what he was really planning. Sir Agrivane began to circle him, eyes sharp and the anger not entirely gone. Percival followed his movements with his head, not his entire body, shield lowered and his grip loose.

Sir Agrivain lunged towards Percival's side with his own shield in an attempt to knock Percival over.

Percival swiveled on his heels and rammed Sir Agrivain's nose with his forehead while striking the other man in the stomach with the top of his shield.

Sir Agrivain was on the ground again, blood starting to trickle out his nose and breaths coming in short gasps.

“Do you yield?” Percival's voice was so quiet he doubted anyone heard him.

“I'm going to suggest you yield, little brother” Sir Gawain's voice came from across the training yard. There was some laughter, which only served to further Sir Agrivane's fury.

“Do you yield?” Percival asked again, louder this time, trying to borrow from Sir Gawain's confidence.

A sound so beyond frustrated it was likely to be genuine rage escaped Sir Agrivane before he said, “I yield.”

Percival, having seen the Knights do it to their defeated opponents, offered a hand to Sir Agrivane, who begrudgingly took it and allowed Percival to help him back to his feet.

–

_Percival had given his name, the name of his father and mother, the barest bones of how he came to Camelot so long after his Father's death at the gates of the city before he had been allowed in, Sigune close behind him._

_It was breathtaking, Camelot. So far from just a castle, it sprawled out as far as he could see. This was, he assumed, a City proper._

_He let himself gape and look around for a moment before he forced his attention forward, to the guard escorting him to – where was it again?_

_To the archives._

_They were met with a surly older man who, after the guard relayed what Percival had told him, made a displeased noise and mumbled something about children from the gutter and their desperate lies._

_And yet, the man returned with a loosely bound book that told the keeper of the archives and the guard serving as their escort that Percival, despite the mostly-ruined clothes he was wearing and the haunted, exhausted look etched into his face that aged him too fast, was a man who valued Truth regardless of how impossible it seemed._

_He was the first son of a Knight, come to claim his birthright._

_“Well,” the guard said, “I suppose we should get you where you need to go if you're going to become a Knight like your father.”_

_And, really, that was the first time Percival considered what coming to Camelot and claiming his lineage meant for him._

_Still, he did not argue against whatever it was God had yet planned for him._

–

Percival was seated in one of the oversized windowsills for one of the proper glass windows, back against the cool stone and feet squished in so his legs came to an inverted V shape. Despite how distorted the glass rendered the outside world, he could still make out which buildings were which based on their brightness in the otherwise dark world. He had studied the city, memorized its layout so keenly that not even the night and the glass could mask this place he'd come to call his home.

He let his eyes unfocus as he recalled the day's training, how Sir Agrivane's rage had been a tangible thing that struck him with such fear he wondered how he would even fare in a War.

“Are you hiding?” Sigune's voice pulled him out of his own head.

“Just thinking,” he told her, “And besides, you can always find me.”

“I know you,” she laughed, “What's got you hiding?”

“ **Thinking** ,” he emphasized, “I made someone bleed in training today.”

“We made each other bleed all the time,” she cocked her head to the side, “That never upset you.”

“Yeah but,” he struggled to find the words, “he was so angry.”

“You probably wounded his pride,” she suggested, “Which, you will have done him a favor, drawing him away from such a sin.”

Percival made a sound that may have been a laugh had worry not consumed him so.

“Come on,” she tugged at his wrist, “I know what cheers you up!”

Percival rolled his eyes but let her lead him to the kitchens. She walked in as if she belonged there, right up to the notorious Sir Kay, and asked him: “Do you have two sweet buns to spare?”

Percival held his breath, waiting to see if the rumors of Sir Kay's temper and lack of tolerance for swiping food from the stores held any truth.

Sir Kay crossed his arms and looked Sigune up and down as if he was looking through her, weighing the very essence of her character to determine if she was worth **two** extra desserts.

Percival hoped she was judged worthy, mostly for selfish reasons.

“Kay!” a voice called from deeper in the kitchen, “Kay come on!”

“We have someone asking for two sweet buns,” Sir Kay called over his shoulder, “Two, at this late hour.”

Percival recognized the man who emerged with two sweet buns on one hand – Sir Bedivere – and felt his worry melt away into confusion. Sir Bedivere was King Arthur's War Marshall, not a kitchen hand or store keeper. He came to a stop next to Kay, a grin playing on his face,

“Well,” Sir Bedivere raised an eyebrow, “does this one get what she's asking for.”

“Hmn,” a corner of Sir Kay's mouth twitched, betraying his cold exterior, “You tell me.”

“Well,” Sir Bedivere looked past Sigune and at Percival, “that one _did_ knock Sir Agrivain on his ass and then broke his nose today.”

“Ah yes,” Sir Kay finally looked at Percival, “I heard about that.”

Percival tried not to let himself wonder what Sir Kay had heard. Nevertheless, an almost-undetectable nod from Sir Kay had Sir Bedivere handing the deserts to Sigune.

Sigune laughed, thanked them, and all but skipped off.

“Come on,” she told Percival, “I know a spot where you can count the stars!”

As he followed his sister, he swore he heard Sir Kay tell Sir Bedivere, “Who had the lad down for being the first one to kick Aggrivain's ass in training?”


	3. A Sweet Bond

Sigune handed one of her fairly-gotten gains to her brother, her grin a thing so near pride that Percival worried for her immortal soul.

“Here,” she told him, “Now come, tell me what's on your mind.”

She looped her free arm with his as they walked down the halls, now near completely dark save for the scattered torches that served only to keep the entire castle's population from inadvertently trampling each other should there be a need to flee in the middle of the night.

Percival sighed and stared at his sweet bun like it held all the answers to every question humanity would ever ask.

“It's the Fisher King, isn't it?” she asked him.

Percival's head snapped up to look directly at her, so unprepared for that question, and as such they rounded the corner and ran directly into Galahad.

“Ah, shit, sorry,” Galahad was apologizing with raised fists, looking as if his apologies did not placate whoever he ran into, he was ready to throw the first punch.

“It was my fault,” Percival said quietly.

“Ah, just you,” Galahad sounded relieved and lowered his fists, “What are you doing out this late?”

Sigune threw him a glance, barely concealing her anger at the _just_ , at the other not-yet-knight's implication that her or her brother could ever be something worth a _just_ that did not imply justice.

Galahad clearly got the message, though, because he continued: “Everyone around here seems to angry all the time, so ready to fight where all it needs is words.” Percival nodded his agreement.

“We're getting sweet buns,” Sigune finally answered his question, “What are _you_ doing out this late?”

Galahad eyes the pastries both of them were carrying and seemed to, just for a moment, consider either asking for some or swiping one and running back into the darkness.

Instead, Percival tore his in half and offered one of the newly formed pieces to Galahad.

“Thank you,” Galahad seemed genuinely surprised.

“Where there's enough for two, there's enough for three,” Percival tried to downplay the gesture. Still, Galahad seemed pleased.

“You're not like the others,” Galahad told him, but then added quickly, “You...care. Like, on a base level, not on a court-enforced level.”

“I didn't grow up in court,” Percival told him. Galahad seemed curious, but did not pry.

“Come with us,” Percival suggested, “Someplace quieter.” Sigune gave him a curious look but did not try to convince Galahad to enjoy his dessert and go back to bed or ask Percival if he was trying to get out of answering her question.

Galahad shrugged and followed the siblings down a series of increasingly dark and narrow hallways, the sweet buns disappearing on the walk, until Sigune released Percival's arm and disappeared down a shaft. Percival waited a moment before following her and hoped Galahad would hive _him_ a moment before following such that he may clear the landing.

Percival landed on his feet and cleared as fast as he could in case Galahad was right behind him, Sigune's hand catching his elbow and pulling him out of the way.

Galahad was far enough behind Percival that the siblings could tell he'd measured how long Percival waited before going down the shaft himself. Sigune reached out and caught his elbow, too, pulling him towards her and Percival.

“Where are we?” Galahad asked.

“Hold up a moment,” Sigune told him, “And one of you, hold this.” Half her sweet bun found its way into Galahad's hand.

The two young men waited, and moments later the room was flooded with light. Galahad winced and shielded his eyes.

“A little warning next time?” Galahad requested.

“Sorry,” Sigune didn't sound very sorry, “Anyway, the shaft is one of two ways out of this room, and the burning oil gets refilled every time it runs out, but beyond that we haven't figured out what this room is for.”

Galahad, once his eyes had adjusted, took in the sheer scale of the room. Granted, it was much smaller than even the smallest dining hall he had yet seen at the castle, but it was much, much larger than his room. It seemed empty, save for the oil track along the side wall, and the stones that made the walls and ceiling seemed well-kept. The floor was packed dirt and devoid of anything that indicated it had ever been bothered.

“I think it was built to be blocked-off,” Percival offered without being prompted, “Like a place to hide, or to seclude someone in an attack.”

“I think you're right,” Galahad told him. Percival's cheeks flushed and he averted his eyes.

Sigune took the last half of her dessert from Galahad and split it into three pieces, handing one to each of them and keeping the last for herself.

“It was the only way I could figure to split everything evenly,” she told them with her mouth full of the piece.

“Thank you,” Galahad sounded so far beyond sincere that it bordered into awe, “I'd never even dreamed of such sweet things before Camelot.”

“Well,” Sigune sat on the floor, her legs crossed, “if there's a good place to talk about things that even the shadows should forget, it's here.”

Percival climbed down to the floor more than sat by his sister, a space for Galahad, should he choose to join them on the floor, that they would make a closed-off circle. Galahad seemed to consider the space for a moment before deciding that, yes, that space was for him.

“My mother,” Galahad started speaking with such an urgency that it was as if he did not get the words out now, they would be trapped within him forever, eventually choking his mind if he lived long enough for them to manifest as such in his head, “was thrown out of her family before I was born. She always told me it was because her father did not see how important it was that God's plan be manifest regardless of the cost. She never spoke her father's name, nor the names of her brothers. She did, however, speak the name of my own father – Lancelot – so often and spoke of him so harshly that I expected to see more a monster than a man.”

Percival tried to see it, tried to imagine the quiet, if not a little quick to defend his King, Sir Lancelot as a monster, but there was nothing in the year here he had seen that made the King's Champion any more or less than a man.

“She raised me to believe I and I alone could bring God's Light back to Camelot, that my father's blood would ensure I was welcomed into King Arthur's innermost circles,” Galahad hung his head, “She also made me believe that I would only get what I was willing to fight for – food, a dry place to sleep, my own name. It was confusing when I was little, but,” he broke off his words and hung his head even lower before raising it to look between the siblings, “She meant well, I am sure of that much. But it was not until her death I was able to begin my search for this Camelot she spoke of.”

Percival reached out and squeezed Galahad's hand as he had on Galahad's first night, in the dining hall, and whatever darkness was beginning to brew in the other man dissipated and Galahad's other hand covered is own. Sigune made a pleased, sad noise, and put one of her hands on Galahad's knee.

“I don't really know what it means,” Galahad spoke as if it was a confession, “to bring the Light back to Camelot, to seek this Holy Grain she would only mention in her weakest moments.”

“I've seen it,” Percival said so quietly even Sigune almost missed it, “the Grail.”

Galahad wanted to ask more questions than he had numbers to count them, but something stopped him, told him it was his turn to squeeze Percival's arm and keep his hand there. It seemed the right thing to do; Percival's mouth twitched to form a small, sad smile that was gone even faster than it had appeared. 

Sigune was too stunned to move – she had never gotten the story of _why_ the nuns and the overseer had been set to flog Percival before she took him and ran away, sealing their fate as people who had lost the home to save their lives.

“The nuns,” Percival fumbled with the words, his eyes casting themselves lower and lower until his entire head hung low, “they were so sure I had a God-given gift and could heal the Fisher King and restore the wasted lands to their former glory but,” he stopped for a long time, so Sigune picked up.

“Our mother left us with the nuns when our father died,” she told Galahad, “Percival was too young to even walk but I remember a little bit of our father and never forgot his name. The nuns, they would have rather I forgot everything of whatever life our mother could have given us, but it felt important to _not forget_ what little I had.”

“Saved my life,” Percival muttered, “They were wrong about me, about saving the Fisher King and his lands. When I returned with the news, they...” Percival closed his eyes and silently pleaded with his tears not to fall – not now, not here, not when he was finally finding the words that went with his experiences.

Galahad seemed to understand, though, seemed able to feel the pain that came with disappointing those who put anything resembling faith into you only to be let down because you were not what they wanted you to be, were not capable of the task they'd set you to.

“There may still be a chance for you to achieve the Grail,” Galahad borrowed Percival's words from a few nights prior, “Let yourself walk on God's path rather than that people try to set for you.”

Percival did not look up, but recalled his first conversation with Galahad, felt once more how deep the other's faith ran.

“Yeah,” Percival opened his eyes slowly, not surprised when he felt tear still stinging the corners of his eyes, “Yeah.”

Galahad reached up to wipe the tears from Percival's eyes. Percival flushed but did not flinch or pull away.

“I'm coming with you,” Sigune told them, “Whenever we go seek the Grail, I'll be beside you.”

There was such a finality to her statement that questioning it felt like questioning the will of God himself. Galahad nodded, accepting Sigune's declaration as an immutable truth.

Percival was flooded with relief that no matter what happened, his sister would be there with him.

The three of them sat in the curious room in silence, letting the weight of their now-shared destiny settle until the oil fires burned low enough they knew it was time to start scrambling back up the shaft they had entered through.

“You said there was another way in?” Galahad asked as he hoisted Sigune back into the hallway.

“Out,” Sigune corrected, “and the other one involved even more darkness and some narrow ledges.”

It sounded like she knew from experience.

“Come on,” Sigune took the lead, “let's try to get some sleep before the morning bells ring.”

Galahad followed her, but in truth he did not expect to find sleep that night. It was as if he'd traded it for friendship and comfort, and as such would not complain when the resulting exhaustion followed him throughout the day.


	4. The Third Grail Knight

Percival was growing to hate the round table.

He loved what it stood for, loved the idea that there was a place they could be equal to each other no matter their experience or bloodline. There was no inequity here born of generations of _the way things were always done._

But these were ideas, hopes his King tried to bring to fruition by giving them a physical presence. He had seen, almost too often, that equity and familiar fortune shared many traits.

He felt something trying to swell in his chest, like a knot of air that he could not rid himself of or loosen no matter how many breaths he took. When they were all gathered like this, sandwiched so close together he was sure if he let himself listen, he might hear the heartbeats of the Knight on either side of him. 

And so, when he heard Lancelot say, “I think asking someone whose soul is entwined with the Grail,” he had no context to what was being asked. 

He knew, however, that it was either himself or Galahad who was being addressed. A glance at the other Grail Knight gave him no hints as to which one of them should respond.

“I think all three of us would need to answer,” Percival decided it was him who should say something, “My sister, she's as much a part of this as myself, or Galahad.”

He knew the words were true as he said them – it was Sigune whose quick thinking that spared Percival whatever it was the nuns would have done to him. Sigune had been the one to take them to Camelot, to trust in the what their father left them.

The knot in Percival's chest threatened to choke all the air out of his lungs. He made eye contact with his King, hoped his eyes said he meant it.

Sigune was the third Grail Knight, no matter her lack of title.

His King nodded.

–

Sigune sat between Percival and a Knight whose name she did not know. He seemed almost afraid of squishing her, opting instead to almost meld with the Knight on his other side. Biting her cheek to avoid smiling, she wiggled a little bit, took up a little more room and took a little bit of glee in how this stranger tried to move further away from her.

“Sigune,” Percival hissed. Despite herself, she smirked.

Their King cleared his throat.

“The Grail,” Bedivere – she was not expecting the War Master to be the historian as well – began, “is connected to Camelot's future,” the War Master pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment before he lowered his hand and continued as if he hadn't paused in the first place, “It is said by some to be a physical chalice, by others to be a manifestation of the heavens themselves that takes the shape of that which the seeker expects, if only they know how to See it. Regardless, Merlin and the rest of the Druids believe Camelot will fall without the Grail, become the second Wasted Land.”

Mercifully, he left out any accusations that one among them had already failed at recognizing the Grail.

Perhaps, Sigune often thought, there would have been more of a chance of Percival's success if their mother hadn't entrusted them to a bunch of people so blindly dedicated to God that they would mold her brother to be their chance at seizing a power they did not understand.

“So,” their King looked between the three Grail Knights, “what does this quest mean to the three of you?”

“I think,” Galahad was the first to speak, “that no matter what I do, no matter the path I walk, it will always be the Grail's light that illuminates where I walk.”

Sigune felt the surprised twitch from Percival – something Galahad just said did not match up with something her brother knew – but did her best to ignore it as Galahad kept talking.

“To seek the Grail,” Galahad closed his eyes and made a sound that sounded like a scoff, “means I must trust the actions I take, the things I do, are all Right and Just, and I will find it at the end of my path.”

To Sigune, that sounded like someone who'd never been allowed to make a choice in his life.

“I think it means hope,” Sigune said, “That, no matter what is coming for Camelot, if we keep our eyes and mind forward and know our options, we can _choose_ our way to the Grail.”

It made sense in her head, at least.

“I don't know what to make of it,” Percival's voice wavered, “I have seen it before, but I did not know what it was, did not know I **could** ask questions about what was happening to me.”

There was a silence like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

As far as Sigune knew, this was the first Percival had told anyone what had happened to him.

“Perhaps it needs all three,” the War Master managed to sound both amused and bored, “Fate, choice, and questions.”

Strategy, even in the midst of discussing averting the disaster the Druids saw. Sigune understood how he earned his title.

All eyes around the table shifted to focus on their King, who drummed his fingertips on the table a few times in a pseudo-rhythm. He looked more curious that anything else, a spark in his eye that wasn't there when Sigune first sat at his table.

“This is a quest you will need to come to an agreement on yourselves,” their King told them, “When you have a plan, come to me.”

Sigune let those instructions brand themselves into her soul. _Come to me._ They were not to request an audience with their King and wait, not to follow the rules of the the court.

_Come to me._

They – herself, her brother, this Galahad kid that she kept running into through her brother – were just made honorary members of the royal family.

She wondered if they would have found their way to Camelot no matter when they left the monastery.

–

When Bors asked him to accompany him to the tavern, Lancelot did not hesitate.

He was, however, late.

“So,” Bors did not look up from the ale he was holding nearly against his chest, “Camelot seems to be sending three young people on a mission to change the future.”

“I'm going with them,” Lancelot said it before he realized the implications, “There will need to be more than three people. Er, on a journey like...”

“Lance,” Bors took one hand off his mug and put it gently on Lancelot's shoulder, “You are allowed to want to be with your son.”

Lancelot swore he felt his heart stop for a few beats.

“I,” he took in a sharp breath, “Yeah. Yeah. I guess that's it.”

 _What a time it will be,_ he thought.


	5. An Invitation

Percival felt lighter than usual as he affixed the last of his training armor. He never liked hitting other people, even if it was for his own good. Or their own good. He supposed training was a little of both.

The way King Arthur had listened when he spoke, had had Sigune brought to the table and had her sit among the Knights as if she belonged there, had let him shake off a mental load he hadn't known he had been carrying.

He was no more excited to thwack those were called his peers with heavy wooden sticks, but he was not dreading it.

He'd take it.

The new feeling of not-dread lasted until he saw Sir Agrivane standing in the middle of the training arena, practice sword held loosely in one hand and eyes trained on Percival.

He wanted to run, to suddenly remember literally anything he had to do that wasn't training.

_No,_ he told himself, _No more running._

He grabbed a shield from the haphazard pile of training shields and tried to meet Agrivane's stare with one of his own. He pushed aside the thoughts of how terrified he must look.

“I want a rematch,” Agrivane informed him.

“Very well,” Percival tried to sound unbothered by the whole situation.

They squared off, barely two swords' length apart. Percival kept his shield lower than was probably recommended. Agrivane was not much taller than Percival, but Percival did not have size on his side as the other man did.

He was going to have to be fast on his feet.

Percival took half a step to the side. Agrivane took half a step backward, putting most of his weight on his back foot. Percival took a step towards Agrivane, sword crossing his body just behind his shield.

Agrivane leaned further back onto his one foot and raised his sword as if trying to judge his strike.

Percival could be patient.

He tapped the end of Agrivane's sword with his shield. Almost predictably, Agrivane swung at the shield in response. Percival waited until Agrivane was halfway done the down swing and rammed Agrivane's wrist with the edge of his shield.

Agrivane snarled but did not drop his sword.

Percival held his ground, kept his weight on the front half of both his feet but kept his heels in contact with the ground.

Agrivane feinted a lunge, but Percival was there, the base of his shield pinning Agrivane's sword to the ground.

Percival lost his balance and was either going to headbutt Agrivane in the face or fall.

He let the force of the move decide for him.

“Alright,” Bedivere called from the sidelines, “Agrivane, that's enough bleeding on my inventory for one week.”

Agrivane left, furious.

“Percival,” Bedivere said, “that's not going to work on the battlefield, but in one-on-one duels you're going to be fine.”

Percival hung his head. Bedivere made a clicking sound, only partly voluntary. Percival looked to the War Master, who seemed amused despite the slight frown he wore.

“Come in the evenings,” the War Master said quietly, “There, you will learn battle.”

Percival nodded as the dread settled back into his mind.

–

“So he said to come in the evenings,” Sigune handed Percival a piece of the leftover bread she'd swiped from the kitchens, “Are you going to go?”

“I don't know,” Percival admitted, “War doesn't sound like following the Destiny God gave me.”

“Hmn,” Sigune made a noncommittal noise.

They were walking aimlessly around the castle's grounds. Percival had energy to burn despite how thoroughly he'd worked on his stances after Agrivane had left the training arena. 

To train for strength, for ideas, was one thing. He knew he had a long way to go until his skill came close to the other Knights his King kept close, knew it would take _work,_ but war was another thing entirely. War was real. War did not care for individuals and their talent or status or strength.

War killed their father.

“I'll go,” Percival decided, “but we need to have a plan and be well away from war before it finds us.”

Sigune nodded, not trusting her words.

–

Galahad held his breath as he let himself fall down to the room Sigune had shown him barely a week ago.

It felt like a different life entirely between then and now.

The oil was already burning. Sigune was lying on her back with one arm over her eyes. Percival was pacing in a line, running his hands through his hair. They did not seem to have been in a conversation.

“What's going on?” Galahad asked, “Am I late?”

“No,” Percival stopped pacing and faced him, “We skipped dinner.”

“Why?” Galahad asked as if it was the most pressing issue.

“War,” Sigune said without moving, “The War Master's teaching Percival how to go to war.”

“Okay, yeah, I can see where that would kill your appetite,” Galahad sucked his teeth, “Did he say why?”

“No,” Percival admitted, “but it was heavily implied I'd die pretty quickly if I went to war with my current skillset.”

“No pressure,” Galahad frowned. Percival made a self-depreciating sound that needed no words.

“We need a plan,” Sigune cut them off before they could go much further, “What do you two know of your Destinies?”

Percival let the words about how the overseers used to beat him, how the nuns refused to teach him to read or write because it would only waste time he should be using to become the ideal vessel for God's plans to manifest themselves within him. He admitted all he knew of his Destiny was what he had been told, and as such when the Grail passed him by, he had no idea what it was, did not know asking questions was even an option.

“It was just a cup,” Percival ran his hands through his hair again, “Well, not just a cup, obviously. But it looked so plain, so befitting of the beautiful tray it was on. And the spear, it just bled and bled and bled. Blood was all over the table, seeping into the wood and really, I just wanted to get out of there.”

Galahad shivered.

“And when he got back the nuns were going to whip him,” Sigune added, “so we ran away.”

“Sounds to me like you ran towards your Destiny,” Galahad couldn't get the image of the bleeding lance and the nuns with whips out of his head.

“I don't know what to think,” Percival let himself sit down, “I don't even want to think about what happened, nevertheless live it again.”

“What about you, Galahad?” Sigune asked, “What do you really think of your Destiny? None of that _I will be where I am meant to be_ bullshit.”

“I,” Galahad hesitate, “I think I couldn't make a choice that would lead me elsewhere if I tried.”

It was worse, somehow, saying it without the usual smoke and mirrors he let obscure the truth behind the dedication to finding the Grail that he used to shield what little pieces of himself he'd managed to cobble together from the world at large.

“I think you've both wrong,” Sigune informed them, arm still over her eyes, “I think chasing the Grail _is_ a choice.”

“What else would we do?” Galahad asked.

“Anything,” Sigune said it like it was obvious, “Be normal Knights, go to war. Become scholars. Farmers. Have families and blend into the fabric of time like people are meant to.”

Despite himself, Galahad laughed. Percival and Sigune laughed, too, the image too much to take seriously.

“What we need is information,” Galahad said between giggles, “We can't have a plan without substance.”

“Where do we get information?” Percival tried to reel in his laughter.

“Libraries?” Sigune guessed at the same time Galahad said, “People.”

“Camelot's historian,” Percival realized, “is teaching me how to be a soldier.”

“We're coming with you tomorrow,” Sigune informed Percival, “Er, I'm coming with you, at least.”

“Well it's not going to look like we're a team if only two of us show up,” Galahad shrugged.

Tomorrow, there would be much more than the wisdom behind war imparted to them. Galahad felt it in his bones.

**Author's Note:**

> Rejected Title: **Roleswap AU 2: Electric Boogaloo [placeholder title]**
> 
> Rejected summary: In which Galahad was raised in the woods and Percival was sent to a monastery, both young men now at Camelot and facing what it means to have a shared Destiny, what makes a family, and, perhaps most importantly, who gets to punch God in the face first.


End file.
